Housecleaning and Fathers too...

Actually wrote this about a week ago. Then went away to a training program and this gave me a chance to look at it again, re-read and make some minor changes. My father was a good man; in life, this is often less important than circumstances, and so it was with us and what might have been our childhood relationship. He was somewhat of an agnostic but, at the end, I think he accepted there may actually be a greater beyond. I hope he found the answers to the philosophical and spiritual questions he spent most of his latter life asking...   He is missed.

It struck me that not much, other than what pertained to my brief Puerto Rico chapter, has been written about my father. There can be many valid reasons for this unintentional silence: late relationship in life, perceived childhood abandonment, relatively few years of actually dealing with each other. Yet, as my thoughts went around and around this concept, they began to key in on the fact that he was, by no applicable measure, a bad man. In fact he was a kind, romantic, non confrontational person who enjoyed doing many things and who, by virtue of this multifaceted enjoyment, often failed to meet the more rigorous daily parameters of being a “productive” person, as measured by others.  Responsibilities were met whenever possible, but the failure to do so would not be life threatening. I understand, I think my personality has definitely inherited some of these traits, along with a relatively short attention span and, as my life gets on into its latter years, a short patience span as well. This last, however, cannot be placed at his feet.

He died some 6 years ago, at around 81- 83 years of age (he hated to give away his true age, but this is a good approximation). A combination of diabetes coupled with a Cuban diet (not the best for this condition), an incipient emphysema due to many years of smoking (he had quit some years before, but after at least having pushed cigarette smoke into his lungs for some 50 years) and, I believe, a feeling of late life loneliness.  He loved to read; write songs and poetry, play the guitar and, of late, a small electric piano we gave him for Christmas a couple of years before his death. His voice was that of a baritone and, at his age, he could still belt a good song, loud and clear. Do I sound somewhat aloof in this description? Perhaps, but I do not meant to be so.

When we first met in PR, back in the 60’s, we talked at length about what kind of possible relationship we could have; one we could both wear –so to speak- and which would be a comfortable fit. We decided to give ourselves a chance to become friends, which we did. I began to know him better each day and began to actually see myself in many of his character traits, even though we had ever known each other in my growing years. We both loved to dream, to hope, refused to give in or up, we enjoyed music until all hours, and both –each in our own way- were hardheaded in the pursuit of a goal which we really, truly wanted to accomplish. Perhaps I a little more than him. We both also had an issue with receiving orders from anyone, even those who may have had the right to give them. I still have a big issue with this, and probably will ‘till the day I die.

After PR, we did not see each other for many years, in fact, only one or two times in almost 30 years, until I came to Miami after having lived in Chile and Argentina for almost 5 years. He and Laura (his second wife and mother of my brother Fernando)had divorced by then, and he was living alone in a small apartment in Miami’s little Havana area.  We were both older and somewhat wiser, and I better understood that not all in life is as it may seem to be. Having gone though two marriages myself, all possible thoughts of blame for that long ago divorce from my mother, were thrown aside. We also knew that time left was becoming shorter; he had already passed 70 years by this time. Besides his always present love of philosophy, music and poetry, he was also a prolific painter, and some of the canvasses were quite good. Every week there would be a shindig going on at one of his cronies’ homes and there he would be with his guitar and his dancing shoes. The times I could go with him, I went and actually enjoyed these outings; we did get to sing some duos now and then, with him carrying the heavier load.

These were better years for our relationship. We opened the gates and talked about many issues which may have been hanging in our minds and hearts; we discussed some of the things that made him leave Cuba so many years ago; things I was never aware of. He also told me how he always kept up with us (my sister and I) through friends, both in and out of Cuba; this is how he had come to know I was in Richland. We became more like older/younger brother at this stage; I truly looked forward to our visits, our conversations and his counsel, which he was not prone to give freely. Eventually, the illness stopped him from being able to go out and he became, more and more, tied to a great reclining stuffed chair which my brother Fernando had bought for him. He could not lie down, for he might not be able to physically get up; this chair became his world.  As time went on, a wistful look would come over him whenever we would talk about those things he liked; many of which were beyond his grasp at this time. But he never complained; all that came his way was accepted and he would make the most out of it; whatever it might be.

As I had learned much from my grandfather, the man whom I consider my childhood father, I came to learn from this other man, my true father. A deep bond was established between us, a trusting bond. We came to love each other in a very special manner, although that lifelong father/son relationship could never really be established. But in reality, we did not miss this.

One afternoon I received a call to let me know that he had been taken to the hospital; some complications had set in. His blood had been compromised and his kidneys were not responding. My brother came from PR, where he lives and we, along with our aunt, took turns to be with him. He seemed to be doing better; in fact, he seemed improved at times. But in reality, these moments were like the calm at the center of the storm, before the other wall slams you down.

One night, at about 10:30pm I was there and watching a Cowboys football game. He was in and out due to the heavy sedating meds for his pain. Dallas, as it had too often done, was losing; my father was a long term fan of this team and my brother, by early education, a life long fan. I was beginning to doze off and suddenly a booming voice behind me, catching me totally by surprise, said

–“QUIEN ESTA GANANDO CHICO?” - ”WHO IS WINNING BOY?”

I damn near fell off my chair and turned around to see a guy almost sitting up, looking at the TV and completely awake. I was surprised. When I told him about the status of the game, he just “harrumphed” and lied back on the bed. I took advantage of this, went over to his side and we started talking a bit, about nothing in particular. He suddenly said:

-“I don’t know if I am ready, but I think I’m near to finding out”

-“Ready for what?” I asked him, despite knowing what he meant.

- “the last step” he said to me.

-“Anything I can do to help you?” I asked him. Having dealt with life insurance for most of my adult life death is to me, a fact of life.

-“Not really” he said… then added: “you already have”.

We were silent for a while and then he said:

-“It is truly ironic that it is you who is with me at this time” he said… -“If someone would have said this to me years ago, that this would be so... I would have not believed it”… Then he added: -“I am glad it is so”.

Then, it was time to go; I lingered for a while, not wanting to really leave. Eventually I had to; he was not in an intensive care room so visiting hours, though stretched, were finite. I got up and went to his bedside, by his headrest. We held hands and said our goodnights and hugged each other, assuring we would see each other in the morning. Yet, when we looked at one another’ eyes, we both knew that this was “Good-Bye”, we parted with not much else being said.

He died peacefully in his sleep, at 3:00am that morning. Often I have thought about his comments, those regarding it being ironic that it would be me with him during those last few moments. I don’t think it ironic. In fact, I think it was what was meant to be.

I miss you Chacho; wherever you may be, know that you earned my love and respect.

Be Well... Be Back.